some disguise forced him to lay these aside.
Although unknown to the public, Tsang had won the confidence of many foreigners in Shanghai, men in high station. As for his Chief, Lluellan, a tall grim Welshman, that individual would occasionally wax lyrical in praise of Tsang.
Terence O'Conner had never had the privilege of meeting the Chinese detective. In fact he had had no dealings whatsoever with the Municipal Police of Shanghai's International City. However, he was now engaged in making this connection.
He was sitting with a hand on the desk telephone of the office of that new organization, "Oriental Motion Pictures, Limited, Shanghai." More than that, he was staring with somber intensity, not unmixed with horror, at a crumpled figure on the floor of the office. The figure was clad in a heliotrope satin gown. From the chin carefully depended seven long black hairs, mute evidence of an Oriental vanity and a desire to grow a beard. It was a vanity that was now forever thwarted, for the upper portion of the figure's head had been crushed in. The body gave evidence by its rigidity of having been a corpse for some time.
O'Conner turned away, lifted the telephone from the hook and asked the masculine Chinese Central to connect him with Police Headquarters. A Scotch desk sergeant answered the call.
"I want to report a murder," said O'Conner steadily. "I am the producer and director of the Oriental Motion Picture Company. I came into my office just five minutes ago, and I found Li Tsing—Mr. Li, we always called him—stretched on the floor, dead. Two chairs were overturned and the desk pulled out. He had been attacked with a blunt instrument, although there is no sign of the weapon"
"An' have ye touched the body?" interrupted the sergeant.
"Of course! I tried to make an examination."
The police officer clucked disparagingly. "Well, what did ye find in yer examination?"
"Just what I was trying to tell you: apparently the only wound he received was on the head. Mr. Li was my male star actor. We were right in the middle of a film, too!" O'Conner's voice rose querulously. "Of all times for him to get mixed up in a feud! For I suppose that is what it was. Some tong war"
"Nonsense!" the sergeant again interrupted. "Therre's no such a thing as a tong in Shanghai. That's for them rrascally Cantonese who emigrrated over to Amerrica and learned Amerrican ways. Had the said Li any pairrsonal enemies?"
"Not that I know of—yes, wait a moment. There's another Oriental picture company here, an older organization that has no foreigners connected with it. Called Ta Ching Cinema, Limited. The rivalry between Mr. Li and the leading man of the Ta Ching has been high. I've been warned to look after my man, or the older company would try to 'nobble' him."
O'Conner fell silent, and a stillness from the other end of the line indicated that the sergeant was putting down this information on the police blotter. At length the Scotchman queried:
"Any other places wherre ye might be suspectin' foul play?"
The director paused appreciably before answering. "It's not much of a suspicion. And, if I tell it to you, will you promise not to have the person arrested?"
"That depends," answered the desk sergeant cannily.
"But I can't have any arrests! I'm going to be crippled now finishing this
